tedbedlam

Some days just seem so beautiful. Some days just seem so glassy, glassy white. And then, from upstairs you hear your father call: What the fuck are you doing? What in shit are you fucking doing? Looking down at your hands as you walk to the door you wonder: of all the sins I've committed today, what is it that matters now? Is it the drugs, the booze or the blood on my fingers? Is it the $50 blunt you lost on the two mile snow-trek to the bar? Is it his drunken disappointment in not knowing to call back to check where the fuck I am instead of driving driving driving to save me from somewhere I'm not? Is it because you can't listen when I say where, who and what? Is it the bloody knuckles from scraping the icy stone island, helping Joya ramble over in cold canvass shoes? I am so tired, so tired and only the best and worst things can manage to make things better. Hooo. hooo. Wisdom or a death rattle. Hooo I'm so tired and glad.